


Poison Barb

by Nyanoka



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: HeartGold & SoulSilver | Pokemon HeartGold & SoulSilver Versions
Genre: Age Difference, Aged-Up Character(s), Anal Sex, Blindfolds, Bloodplay, Character Study, Consensual Sex, Control, Dirty Talk, Future Fic, Knifeplay, M/M, Names, Painplay, Post-Canon, Power Dynamics, Riskplay, S&M, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23259034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: Even years later, Proton and Ethan always meet on a Friday.
Relationships: Gold/Lance | Proton, Hibiki | Ethan | Gold/Lance | Proton
Kudos: 9





	Poison Barb

**Author's Note:**

> Do I like this fic entirely? Not really. I'm dissatisfied with it at points, sometimes incredibly so, but not enough to dump it into the virtual trash bin.
> 
> Title is a bit of cliche honestly, but it's taken from the item you receive from Frieda, one of the Week Siblings, when you talk to her on well, Friday.
> 
> And why Proton/Ethan? I think it's a fascinating potential dynamic, and I want to contribute to a childhood pair I'm still fond of.

“Still doing alright there, Sunshine?”

“Don’t call me that, Proton.”

“Aww, why not?” The words come as a purr, enunciating and vibrating. “I think it fits you, what with all those bright colors you wore back when we first met.”

Proton’s not particularly sincere—he’s overly saccharine, intentionally cliché to an annoying degree even—but Ethan expects that of him. Even during his childhood, Proton has always aimed to prod at others’ insecurities, both in the literal and hypothetical sense of the word.

He’s obnoxious in a way that reminds Ethan of an insect’s scuttling. He’s not particularly loud, but his voice—the implications—ring within his ears, digging into his eardrums like a persistent parasite.

Though, he’s not particularly wrong either. Ethan had worn a startling amount of bright yellow and orange during his younger days. It had been his mother’s choice of attire, not that he minded then. She often fretted, coddling and picking at every possibility of danger no matter how unlikely.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if his outfit’s gaudiness—sunny yellow shorts and blindingly orange jacket—had been a well-meaning, if bizarre, attempt to keep a car from hitting him.

He doesn’t hate the colors—he still has bits of orange and yellow in his outfit after all—but he doesn’t exactly want to be known as the full-grown man whose mother still picked out clothes for.

That’s strange even with consideration to his own habits and inclinations.

But still, even as he aged, discarding her stylings for his own, she dotes on him still, calling every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday night at 7 p.m. sharp. Ethan doesn’t mind of course—why would he? It’s his mother, and it’s only three days out of seven—but it made some activities particularly difficult to schedule.

Perhaps that is part of why he and Proton always meet on a Friday.

“I don’t like it,” Ethan says simply. He knows Proton well enough. Any sort of visible annoyance would be an invitation to continue with his pestering. He doesn’t want that, not tonight anyway. They don’t have time for it.

A curl of the lips and the white of his teeth is what Proton responds with.

“Then, what do you want me to call you tonight?”

_Asshole_ , Ethan thinks. Proton knows his answer already. It’s one of the few certainties of their meetings over the years.

Twenty-two and thirty-one. That is where they stand with each other now.

Eleven years of acquaintance, of which the majority were spent chatting over buzzing half-static phone calls dialed from whatever numbers and burner phones Proton stole, of which they spent exchanging half-blurry photos that would ruin him publicly if they were to ever appear online, and of which they spent hastily planning meetups numbering in the handful or three.

Proton knows and that is why he asks, irritable as always.

And Ethan knows him, as much as their odd relationship allowed anyway. He wouldn’t continue without an answer.

“I-I”—shit, it’s still embarrassing to say even now —”I want you to c-call m-m—”

Fuck, it’s embarrassing. It shouldn’t embarrass him—they’ve said nastier shit to each other over the phone—but it does. Perhaps it is a consequence of the sparsity and of the seasonal nature of their encounters—Proton, despite his playfulness, isn’t particularly frisky, and they rarely have the chance to fuck in the truest sense of the word anyway—but the idea of asking mortifies him, drawing blood to his face and elsewhere.

Or perhaps further still, it’s the personal nature of these encounters that bothers him. It’s rather different to see Proton, still oddly youthful in appearance despite the years, in-person and hear him speak—sans static.

It’s different to have him in the room as flesh and blood and not as a distant, coy voice in the dark of his apartment’s bedroom.

“We don’t have all night, you know.” Biting, rude, and impatient. Ethan doesn’t expect—or desire—anything else from him. Anything else would simply be another false pretense, and he doesn’t want ingenuity—not with Proton anyhow.

They’re a bit too far past that point, he thinks. It’s been eleven years since their first meeting in the Slowpoke Well and since he’s begun scraping away at the layers of Proton’s façade.

“Well? This hotel may be a shithole, but you do know they charge by the night, right? And I’m not exactly well-off. Unless you want to pay, dear Cham—”

Ethan interrupts. He doesn’t want any of Proton’s crappy pet names. It’s insincere, and he doesn’t need that tonight. He gets enough insincerity in his daily life unfortunately—“Sir” this, hollow and calculated praise there, and spineless, shit-kissing bootlicking elsewhere.

He doesn’t know how Lance deals with it.

So, he asks for something else, something that wouldn’t nauseate him—not in the traditional sense anyway.

“I want you to call me your whore.”

His face burns afterwards even as Proton smiles the same white grin of before.

“Alright.” Ethan feels Proton’s hand on his bare shoulder and then the other man’s warm breath brushing against his cheek as he draws his face nearer. He doesn’t force him, push him back-first into the mattress. That’s not how their little arrangement—their little game works—and even Proton, with all of his cruelty and his propensity for lies, understands that.

It is in the choice of the matter, the willingness of the tongue—of the language, both verbal and otherwise—and the willingness of the body.

He doesn’t want or need control, not in this particular arrangement.

Ethan feels the press of unnaturally sharp teeth against the lobe of his ear, just enough to tinge his senses with pain but not enough to draw blood or destroy skin, and idly, he wonders if Proton has any Pokémon—Ninetales or Zoroark perhaps—in his heritage. He’s certainly vindictive enough. It’s not exactly unheard of either considering Johto’s past centuries before.

He definitely remembers what Lance has told him about the Dragon Tamer clan.

He doesn’t think Proton would disagree or find offense with his train of thought either. He’d probably bark with laughter and agree. Proton doesn’t talk much on his past before Team Rocket outside of scattered bits and the occasional derogatory comment, but Ethan remembers them well enough.

“My mother was a bitch, and I’m fucking glad she died in pain.”

He remembers that comment distinctly. For all of his normal guardedness and suspicion, Proton is surprisingly chatty in the minutes after they fuck, bed having stilled and blankets carelessly cast upon them like a fisherman’s net. It’s not exactly the best pillow talk from an objective standpoint, but Ethan appreciates it.

It is honest, blunt, entirely feeling despite its callousness. That in itself is something he wants—not the picket fence dream, not the hours upon hours of paparazzi and spotlight, not the rigidness and structure of his given schedule.

It is something else.

Ethan feels Proton’s teeth cease in their pressure and release, the fall of his hand, and the return of his breath.

He feels and hears Proton’s next words, slithering against his ear, drawing warmth to his face and then to his neck and spiraling afterwards, downwards, throughout the rest of his body.

“Turn around, whore. I don’t want to see your face.”

And without word, he complies—bed creaking underneath them, breath quickened, and skin hot. He feels Proton’s palm press against the back of his head and a nudge forward. It isn’t forceful enough to hurt, just enough for him to understand Proton’s intentions.

It’s difficult to breath as he is now, and he’s fairly certain he looks ridiculous—knees, chest, and face pressed into the linen sheets, skin entirely bare and already perspiring, and ass presenting upwards. But still, there is a certain appeal to it as attested to by the pre-cum dripping from his cock and onto his inner thighs and the sheets.

“Pull your wrists here.” Ethan feels the tips of Proton’s nails dig into the small of his back, indenting the flesh with dark crescent moons. As Ethan moves his hands behind his back, he feels a hand move between his thighs and cup his balls, a gentle pressure as a calloused palm presses upwards, and the edges of nails grazing at sensitive skin.

And just as quickly as the touch had come, Proton squeezes, hard and harsh and without warning. Like a bee’s sting, it is a sharp sort of pain that invades Ethan’s sense, eliciting a half-strangled yelp that blurs into a moan, muffled and suffocated by the linen.

He doesn’t apply enough force to permanently injure or puncture the skin, but Ethan feels the dig of his nails, rounded, clean, and well-kept, as well, and he feels another noise escape his throat again.

“You’re eager tonight,” Proton says before chuckling.

What a fucking ass. Proton knows well how he feels about those sorts of phrases. They’re cliché, trite, and fit more for a cheap porno than what he wants. It’s meant to annoy him even as he feels another squeeze on his balls before the hand moves to his cock’s base and then the length. He feels fingers brush against coarse, dark hairs and then trail along with the vein until settling lightly on the head.

The pad of a finger rubs against the wet slit of his cock, and he feels Proton’s other hand upon his inner thigh. The fingers and nails prod against the soft skin before he feel a sharp pinch as Proton brings his fingernails together, fragile flesh held between the digits, before moving down his inner thigh and repeating the motion. He’s certain that the bruises—Proton’s not the sort to leave anything else—will make walking difficult in the morning as they chafe against his garments.

But still, Ethan inhales sharply. It’s tricky to breath with how he’s positioned now, but he’s not particularly inclined to move yet, not when he feels Proton’s hands finally leave him, and he hears the groaning of the bed as Proton reaches for the nightstand.

“Lift you head a bit,” Ethan hears. Without the support of his arms and elbows on the bed and with his current state of excitement, he finds some difficulty with his task, but he manages eventually, lifting his face until his chin rested upon the bed.

Ethan feels a hand comb into his hair and then a slight wetness, drawing a huff of annoyance. They would have to shower afterward anyway, but Proton couldn’t have used his dry hand? The one that hadn’t been stroking his dick?

In response, he feels Proton’s fingers massage his scalp, spreading the wetness further.

Fucking asshole.

But still, he doesn’t expect anything else. He knew what he was getting into years ago—over a decade ago when he, Meganium trailing after, had chased after Proton during the Radio Tower Siege—and he still knows now.

Proton isn’t a particularly nice person, but he isn’t either really.

Finally, he feels Proton cease in his motions, and his fingers leave before he feels a cloth wrap around his head, obscuring his sight, and then the press of a palm against the back of his head, nudging his face back into the mattress.

He hears the groaning of the bed’s springs, hears the shuffling of bedsheets and blankets, and hears the clink of something being grabbed from the nightstand before he feels Proton press his nails into his wrists, leaving more crescent moons in their wake.

“Lift,” he says, and Ethan does. His breath comes in shallow puffs, a consequence of the situation and of his anticipation.

And then, he feels the slide of rope upon his wrists, ridges digging into flesh and looping.

He feels the ridges loop once, twice, thrice, and a final time before it wraps around itself and tightens, forming a knot that rubs against his back with each of his own movements. It’s a bit tighter than he would like—there’s no space, and patches of his uncovered skin rub together—but it isn’t a dealbreaker for him.

Not that he could really turn back at this point.

He hears the slide—the clink—of metal being pulled from its sheath.

Ethan receives no warning before Proton presses the flat of the knife against his shoulder blade, and he hisses at the coolness as it intermingles with the heat of his flesh and the heat of the room. He feels it lift from his skin before it promptly returns—cool, thin metal trailing down his spine.

It can’t be the edge this time. Even with the sensations and pants the blade elicits from him, it doesn’t break the skin. It has to be the dull, the spine, of the knife.

He feels it leave again before Proton’s palm presses into the mid of his back and pushes him further down onto the mattress. Proton doesn’t remove his palm even as Ethan feels the point of the knife between his shoulder blades. It nicks the flesh this time, just enough to draw blood and another hiss from Ethan.

“I could stab you to death right now, you know”—Proton’s tone is light, casual as someone chatting about the weather instead of murder—"You’re all tied up, and I was the scariest guy in Team Rocket until you came along and ruined _everything_.”

Ethan doesn’t reply. Instead, he waits, panting and sweating. He shouldn’t be feeling the blood—the blood that isn’t dripping out onto the pale skin of his back anyway—rushing back downwards, but he does.

He continues, “I had a nice lil’ place in Goldenrod and a weekly paycheck. And you—bright-eyed and snot-nosed—came along and _fucked_ everything up. You didn’t even care about those Slowpoke, right? You just wanted your shitty badge and a few battles to test your team against. Fucking whore.”

The pressure on his back leaves, and he feels it return on his forearm. It’s his left this time—he has to think about it—and he feels the flesh break and warmth drip, mixing with his sweat and smearing on the white sheets below them, before it leaves. He feels a noisy groan leave his throat, and his dick hardens further. It’s painful, so very painful.

He doesn’t know whether he’s talking about his erection or the wound at this point. Perhaps it’s both this time.

Another slide of the edge upon his forearm elicits another groan.

He hears the anger—clear yet ragged—in Proton’s voice now, and it draws him closer to the edge.

“You have a cushy fucking job now—that’s why you don’t quit and leave for the mountains like that other bastard, right?—and I’m stuck taking odd jobs and running from the damn police.”

Ethan doesn’t reply. He doesn’t mention how he’s offered him money before, both nameless wire transfers and upfront cash numbering in the six to even nine figures. He’s not particularly frivolous in his day-to-day spending. He has the money to spare.

He doesn’t mention how Proton had snarled a succinct “I’m not your damn charity case or your fucking sugar baby!” when he had verbally offered. That had been the end of that then. It’s a rather funny occasion in some sense of the word now that he thinks about it, but he doesn’t think Proton would agree, not with how riled up he is at the moment.

He doesn’t mention how he had offered to pay for an apartment as well.

He, breath shallow, only lets Proton continue.

“And _you_ ”—there’s the curl in his voice, the snarl so akin to a savage beast and so inherently Proton’s in nature—“you really are a whore. Did you really like my cock enough to let me go, after everything? You’re the reason why I even got a ticket out of Johto, and why I’m still even free right now. I’m no fucking good at disguises like Petrel—asshole’s in Alola right now at some fancy foundation—and I don’t have any connections or nest eggs like Ariana or Archer. Outside of _you_ anyway.”

Fingertips press his bloodied forearm, nails scraping into the cuts, and Ethan groans again, panting.

“Turn over, whore.”

He feels Proton’s hand move from his arm and to his side and the wetness of his own blood on his skin. He feels a nudge, and he complies, rolling onto his back. His hands press into the mattress, trapped there both by the rope and his own body weight.

It’s uncomfortable in a way that makes him shiver, trembling.

Ethan feels a gasp leave his throat when the flat of the knife returns and pushes down against one of his nipples. Like an animal, nails scratch at his side, digging into and breaking skin.

He feels the coolness of the knife leave—hears it clatter on the wooden flooring—and then the warmth that replaces. He feels a tongue swirl—warm and wet in a way different from his blood—and then the bite of teeth dig into his pec.

He doesn’t mean to whine when he feels Proton’s mouth leave, but he does.

“You don’t even know my name, and you’re still getting off.”

Even without his sight, Ethan can imagine the sneer on Proton’s face.

But it’s true, he really doesn’t know. He only knows that Proton—much like Ariana, Archer, and Petrel—is an alias. He’s asked a few times before over the years, and he’s been met only with moodiness. It’s different than the anger that Proton normally exhibits when it concerns its past. It simmers in his eyes and in the way his shoulders clench.

Ethan has stopped asking at this point. There’s no point to it. When Proton’s mind is set to something, truly set, he rarely changes it.

He feels Proton’s tongue return to his pec, and how it laps against the bruises on his skin, circling around the mark before moving up—saliva trailing behind and sticky. He feels the warmth trail up to his collarbone, nipping briefly and with less intensity than his first marking, before moving to the side of his neck.

Teeth and tongue graze his neck alongside a few nips, and he feels the weight of Proton’s body press down on his and how his own legs spread to accommodate the other man’s position. Proton’s near-lying on him now, body in-between his legs. Though, Proton’s not particularly heavy despite their difference in height. Unsurprising. Proton’s still gangly, overly thin. He doesn’t quite eat enough at times.

He feels a hard cock grind against his stomach, the nails scrape his sides, agitating already open cuts; the teeth that latch onto his neck—breaking skin—and the tongue that greedily laps up the ensuing droplets.

It’s not particularly sanitary—it’s more animalistic than civilized—but Ethan doesn’t mind all too much. It’s one of the characteristics that draws him back.

He hears himself whimper, and he wants to cum so badly. He feels the slight pull in his stomach, and he almost does until he hears Proton’s voice again, teeth having released from his neck.

“Don’t.”

It’s a simple command, but it burns at his cheeks. Another creak of the bed, and Proton’s weight shifts off of his body and the other man’s hands release from his sides.

He feels the bud of anticipation—he can deduce the reason why for Proton’s actions—and he’s rewarded when he hears the pop of a cap and the crinkle of squeezed plastic.

It doesn’t take long for Proton’s fingers to press against his rear or for him to push the slicked digits in. There is no warning, vocal or otherwise, only the coolness of the lube and the prodding of fingers. Around his cock, he feels the roughness of Proton’s hand, calloused from years of work, tighten and the slight dig of nails. It’s not enough to damage the organ, but it’s certainly more force than what he cares to try with his own touch.

Noisy. He’s absolutely noisy when he feels Proton’s fingers curl and the rough tug on his cock.

It’s unceremonious—lacking in those clichés, those careless words that simpletons say and the falsities that he abhors—when Proton removes his fingers and when he enters and fucks him.

It’s rough—wild and more akin to a rabid beast than any traditional sense of affection—and Ethan finds himself returning his motions with the same vigor, legs wrapped around a thin, scarred waist. It’s painful in a way—how the wound on his back burns with each motion and slide, how the bindings on his wrist tighten and chafe, and how Proton’s hands, now on his waist, dig into the flesh—but it’s welcome enough. It’s better than the untruths of his daily life and its normalcy.

It’s unceremonious when Ethan cums first, warmth on his stomach, and when Proton continues to thrust—fast and rough and feral. He’s always had more stamina than him.

Perhaps he should consider it inconsiderate, but he doesn’t. It is in these moments that Proton is the most sincere—less sugary saccharine meshed with crafted playfulness and more as himself.

It’s unceremonious when Proton cums with no warning, only noise and breath, and when he pulls out.

There’s no apologies—not that Ethan wants any—when Proton rolls him over, when he hears the clink of metal, and when he feels the rope around his wrists loosen, having been cut. There’s no gentleness or caress when he feels Proton undo the knot of the blindfold. It’s simply an action that needs to be done.

That is what he expects.

He doesn’t expect to hear Proton speak as he does when he rolls over and sits up.

“Hold out your arm.”

Ethan doesn’t expect to see the first aid kit beside him, probably dug up from beneath the bed, or the bandages, already unrolled, and the antiseptic spray in his hands.

It’s different—out of the norm—than their usual encounters.

“Well? I don’t have all night. I have shit to do in the morning.” The impatience—even in its halfheartedness—is at the very least normal, less odd than whatever this is.

Despite—or perhaps because of—his curiosity, Ethan holds out his arm. It’s odd when Proton cleans his cuts, it’s odd when his own hiss comes from care rather than their normal activities, and it’s odd when Proton gently prods at the reddened skin on his wrists and the bruises to check rather than to annoy or injure.

It’s odd when Proton wraps the bandages around his forearm and moves onto his sides. It’s uncharacteristic, but Ethan finds that he doesn’t mind all too much. It’s different, different than the normality he’s come to expect when it comes to matters concerning Proton.

He doesn’t expect more strangeness tonight, but it happens anyway, unheralded and as Proton finishes wrapping the bandages around his sides.

“It’s Luke.”

“Hmm?”

“My name”—Proton’s voice is uncharacteristically subdued now—“it’s Luke.”

How strange. It’s not unwelcomed, but it’s different, even with Proton’s tendency to wax poetic after sex.

Proton picks up another roll of gauze from the kit before speaking.

“Now turn around. I need to check your back, Ethan.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, I ended up going this route because I can't see Proton as someone who would ever settle down entirely into a picket fence family or have anything remotely resembling a "vanilla" sex life or a normal romantic life. I also see him as a rather volatile character, not really the most emotionally or mentally sound. There is a bigger interplay of sex, pain, and animalism in this as well which is nice since I normally don't get to work with it (a lot of characters and pairs I like don't fit the dynamic for it unfortunately).
> 
> Themes of the fic are: trust, normalcy, truth, and the persona (public VS private)
> 
> I do gotta go work on that Victor/Piers wall sex/exhibitionism future fic now though. I was supposed to do that, but I decided to break it up and try this one first since I'm now apparently a serial rarepair writer. 
> 
> Though there are places where sentimentality does shine through (ex. See the little nuances in what Ethan says VS what Proton says and does, the most obvious being the ending). It's not exactly a normal relationship on either side to put it lightly, but this stuff is more interesting to me than a "everything's fine and lovey-dovey and the most trouble we have is grabbing each other's shirts on the way to work" sort of relationship tbh. It's an almost "idealized dysfunction" which I'm more drawn to than the "picket fence dream."
> 
> On Ethan itself, I decided to go for one that's less brash (in a sense) than the one from the manga/fanon. He's more "prickly" and prone to moodiness with his key concept being "thrillseeker/dangerseeker." His characterization is based more on the "disillusioned/older" player who goes for the post-game/competitive as quick as possible. OFC, it's still tinged with less "meta" characterization, but I thought it was more interesting to have two dysfunctional characters in a relationship rather than some "I'll help him become a better person" deal. They're both awful in their own ways imo.
> 
> And I honestly like the idea of a "loss of control" and the exchange of power and that's reflected in how Proton and Ethan interact with each other + their respective identities.
> 
> While I actually did do some research for this, it, like some of my other writings, is still fantasy. It's not really meant to be hyper-realistic or followed through with proper etiquette hence why you do see stuff that wouldn't "work out" for lack of better word. I was also really close to tagging "Cock and Ball Torture" for this, but I didn't want to lure people in accidentally who'd want more. On the bondage itself, it's the wrap & cinch double column.
> 
> Cut sections for this story: Flashbacks to the Johto games (too much insight into Ethan himself when it goes against his given character as distrustful), More explicit threats/explicit fearplay (there was going a section where Proton threatens to slice one of the major arteries for example), brief mention of Ethan's team in reference to fearplay and flashbacks,  
> and more snide/sarcastic remarks from Ethan
> 
> Though if you are curious, Ethan's team consists of Meganium, Nidoking, Tyranitar, Raichu, Skarmory, and Houndoom. I don't particularly want to give him his manga team because they're too radically different as characters.


End file.
